Me Before You: a novel

married to such a man, I thought absently, someone for whom every moment apparently
contained some sensory pleasure? But—I reminded myself—a man who also felt at liberty
to stare at shopgirls until they blushed. When he reached the great glass doors he turned
and looked directly at me. He lifted his hat for a full three seconds, then disappeared into
the Paris morning.
• • •
I
had come to Paris in the summer of 1910, a year after the death of my mother and a
month after my sister had married Jean-Michel Montpellier, a bookkeeper from the
neighboring village. I had taken a job at La Femme Marché, Paris’s largest department
store, lodging within the store’s own large boardinghouse, and had worked my way up from
storeroom assistant to shop-floor assistant.
I was content in Paris once I had recovered from my initial loneliness, and I earned
enough money to wear shoes other than the clogs that marked me out as provincial. I loved
the business of being there at 8:45 
A.M.
, when the doors opened and the fine Parisian
women strolled in. I loved being free of the shadow my father’s temper had cast over my
whole childhood. The drunks and reprobates of the 9th arrondissement held no fears for
me. And I loved the store: a vast, teeming cornucopia of beautiful things. Its scents and
sights were intoxicating, its ever-changing stock bringing new and beautiful things from the
four corners of the world: Italian shoes, English tweeds, Scottish cashmeres, Chinese silks,
fashions from America and London. Downstairs, its new food halls offered chocolates from
Switzerland, glistening smoked fish, robust, creamy cheeses. A day spent within La Femme
Marché’s bustling walls meant being privy to a daily glimpse of a wider, more exotic world.
I had no wish to marry after all (I did not want to end up like my mother), and the thought
of remaining where I was, like Madame Arteuil, the seamstress, or my supervisor, Madame
Bourdain, suited me very well indeed.
Two days later, I heard his voice again: “Shopgirl! Mademoiselle!”
I was serving a young woman with a pair of fine kid gloves. I nodded at him, and
continued my careful wrapping of her purchase.
But he didn’t wait. “I have urgent need of another scarf,” he announced. The woman took
her gloves from me with an audible tut. If he heard he didn’t show it. “I thought something
red. Something vibrant, fiery. What have you got?”
I was a little annoyed. Madame Bourdain had impressed on me that this store was a little
piece of paradise: The customer must always leave feeling they had found a haven of
respite from the busy streets (if one that had elegantly stripped them of their money). I was
afraid my lady customer might complain. She swept away with her chin raised.
“No no no, not those,” he said, as I began sorting through my display. “Those.” He
pointed down, within the glass cabinet, to where the expensive ones lay. “That one.”
I brought out the scarf. The deep ruby red of fresh blood, it glowed against my pale
hands, like a wound.
He smiled to see it. “Your neck, mademoiselle. Lift your head a little. Yes. Like that.”
I felt self-conscious holding up the scarf this time. I knew my supervisor was watching
me. “You have beautiful coloring,” he murmured, reaching into his pockets for the money as
I swiftly removed the scarf and began wrapping it in tissue.
“I’m sure your wife will be delighted with her gifts,” I said. My skin burned where his gaze
had landed.

---

He looked at me then, the skin around his eyes crinkling. “Where are your family from,
you with that skin? The north? Lille? Belgium?”
I pretended I hadn’t heard him. We were not allowed to discuss personal matters with
customers, especially male customers.
“You know my favorite meal? Moules marinière with Normandy cream. Some onions. A
little pastis. Mmm.” He pressed his lips to his fingers and held up the parcel that I handed
him. “À bientôt, mademoiselle!”
This time I dared not watch his progress through the store. But from the flush at the back
of my neck I knew he had stopped again to look at me. I felt briefly infuriated. In St.
Péronne, such behavior would have been unthinkable. In Paris, some days I felt as if I were
walking the streets in my undergarments, given how Parisian men felt at liberty to stare.
• • •
“Y
ou have an admirer,” remarked Paulette (Perfumes), when he arrived again days later
“Monsieur Lefèvre? Be careful,” sniffed Loulou (Bags and Wallets). “Marcel in the post
room has seen him in Pigalle, chatting to street girls. Hmph.” She turned back to her
counter.
“Mademoiselle.”
I flinched, and spun around.
“I’m sorry.” He leaned over the counter, his big hands spanning the glass. “I didn’t mean
to frighten you.”
“I am far from frightened, monsieur.”
His brown eyes scanned my face with such intensity.
“Would you like to look at some more scarves?”
“Not today. I wanted . . . to ask you something.”
My hand went to my collar.
“I would like to paint you.”
“What?”
“My name is Édouard Lefèvre. I am an artist. I would very much like to paint you, if you
could spare me an hour or two.”
I thought he was teasing me. I glanced where Loulou and Paulette were serving,
wondering if they were listening. “Why . . . why would you want to paint me?”
It was the first time I ever saw him look even mildly disconcerted. “You really want me to
answer that?”
I had sounded, I realized, as if I were hoping for compliments.
“Mademoiselle, there is nothing untoward in what I ask of you. You may bring a
chaperone, if you choose. I merely want . . . Your face fascinates me. It remains in my mind
long after I leave La Femme Marché. I wish to commit it to paper.”
I fought the urge to touch my chin. My face? Fascinating? “Will . . . will your wife be
there?”
“I have no wife.” He reached into a pocket and scribbled on a piece of paper. “But I do
have a lot of scarves.” He held it out to me, and I found myself glancing sideways, like a
felon, before I accepted it.
• • •
I
didn’t tell anybody. I wasn’t even sure what I would have said. I put on my best gown and
took it off again. Twice. I spent an unusual amount of time pinning my hair. I sat by my

---

bedroom door for twenty minutes and recited all the reasons I should not go.
The landlady raised an eyebrow as I finally left. I had shed my good shoes and slipped
my clogs back on to allay her suspicions. As I walked, I debated with myself.